Category Archives: bloggers

Out with Friends

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Secret Agent Fred and I went out for drinks and, eventually, pizza with longtime mrpeenee commenter Salty Miss Jill the other night.  She had blown in from the big city and I was delighted to meet her: she is both salty and sweet and I like meeting the people who bestir themselves to comment here.  It makes their sassy insolence seem more heartfelt.  Plus did I mention she was charming?  We wound up in the bar for a couple of hours talking blogger talk.  SMJ has allowed her blog to fall fallow and I was encouraging her to hit the keyboard once again.  I think there are just never enough amusing bloggers out there.  How else am I supposed to waste my time?

Also, she revealed that she had a waitressing past with teeny-tiny pornster Samuel Colt, which I think alone requires extensive blog coverage.

Super Seven

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What do you mean it’s August?  The hell?   How do these things happen?

It’s true I’ve been rather distracted lately by hosting guests for their own wedding and visiting New Orleans on a retail spree and competing with the cats to see who can sleep the most in one day, but that doesn’t excuse missing two important (to me, and who else counts?) anniversaries in July.

The first was Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat’s birthday, his seventh, on July 7.  Yes, 7/7/07 and now it’s number seven, so maybe this year will be lucky for him.  Having ripped up both white leather chairs in the living room, he is now turning his attention to converting the back guest room into a spare cat box, so he’s probably going to need all the luck he can get if I catch him pooping in there one more time.

And my blog, this title piece of heaven, also turned seven a few days ago, but again, I was sleeping, so, oops.  In case you wondering, here is the first post, from all those long years ago:

But who is mrpeenee?
I’m a nice guy, that’s who. I hide it successfully under a mask of brittle bitterness, but I would be happy to save orphan kittys and old ladies from burning buildings if I just weren’t so darn busy downloading porn and staring out the window. My long suffering lover, R Man, and I live in San Francisco where I work for the federal government making wildly inaccurate statements to the press and running the training program for entrepreneurs for the SBA here. I am occasionally surprised to realize how respectable I am.

I grew up in Texas, but never understood what white trash I am until I left. How was I supposed to know nice people didn’t put mayonnaise on their French fries?

I gotta go.

So seven years later and all I’ve learned is how to include photos of muscly young men.  Hmm.

Blah Blah Blogging

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I’ve spent much too long this evening trying to pull together some kind of post about spending the afternoon in the war zone Castro Street has turned into

(construction has ripped up the streets and sidewalks like a gutted fish forcing you to navigate these narrow temporary corridors fenced in on all sides.  It’s like being stuck inside Thunderdome.)  Frustration with getting anything more than that parenthetical news bulletin reminds me of one of my favorite Dorothy Parker quotes:

“I hate writing, I love having written.” 

Not so much block as complete desolation, I can’t think of anything or how to say it if I do think of it. I start to wonder if English is really my first language.  Would I have better luck in Urdu?

Besides, what is blogging anymore but a quaint and dying hobby much like tatting?  One by one, most of the blogs I used to read that, like mine, were first person accounts of how the blogger got along with their maddening (fill in the blank: spouse, job, addiction, cat, whatev) have all pretty much slipped beneath the waves, leaving me and a few other ranting souls, wearing our tinfoil hats and carrying on.  Having a blog used to be hip, and then it was trite, and now it’s sort of musty.

So I decided to redecorate, hence the new background and header photo and other snappy touches.   Also, looking up the Dorothy Parker quote (in order to get it actually correct.  I’m pissy that way.  I also don’t use “comprised” when I mean “composed.”   Pissy.) I found a quote of hers that was unfamiliar to me, and which I’ve decided to use as my new cri de coeur:

“Heterosexuality is not normal, it’s just common.” 
Who ya gonna call when you need snipers removed from your tastefully decorated crime scene?
SWAT BUSTERS!

Celebrate

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Let’s celebrate, bitches.The weather here is balmy with partly clothed boys popping up everywhere.  Saki the cat got out, but came back and his new vet’s stunning good looks are absurdly like what a soap opera veterinarian would be cast with.   Jason  is still puny, but didn’t die.  Yet.  So Celebration.

Not last, Secret Agent Fred’s house in Baltimore sold finally and the check is, as they say, in the mail.  This whole ordeal has been bruising and the only reason we got through it was  Ask the Cool Cookie who has dealt with months of madness, mayhem, mould and contractors.  He is, as his people would say, a mensch.

The very last day as the deal was stumbling through the byzantine process of unloading a house, a mystery line of credit popped up and we had to scramble to deal with it cause unless it was closed, no deal.

Fred had taken to his bed at his apartment, like some frail in a mediocre Tennesse Wiliams’ play and was not answering his phone.  I wound up begging a friend of ours, Rascal, who has a key to Tim’s building and lives nearby, to go over a roust the little miscreant and urge him to call the realtor ASAP. It’s possible I also might have dropped a hint that kicking Fred could be a swell idea, but I don’t know how all that went over.

I do know the incredibly patient realtor emailed this afternoon to confirm the check is on its way.

Also, chez peenee’s back yard is winding up for what looks like a stunning late spring.

So celebrate.  Now is the time, this is place.

House Party

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Oh, hello, there, how nice to see you again.  I had to dash off to New Orleans last week to meet up with the architect handling the plans of the renovation of my house there.  I was sort of dreading this, in part because my previous experiences with architects have been very much of the “I am an Ayn Rand sized diva and you had best watch out” type of soul withering punishment, and also because I assumed all the ideas I had for revamping the shabby little joint would be kicked to the architectural curb.

Instead, Katherine, Queen of Architects, was supportive and interested, complimentary about my ideas and made all of them work and improved even the most crack pot ones.

So now, demolition is proceeding with speed and my friend Stephen, who is running the project, and whom I think we can refer to as Sister Mary Legs in the Air from now on, is a genius.  He’s very practical and so energetic about getting this crap done, I have to go lie down after watching him dervish around, ripping and tearing and nailing and all kinds of other butch things.

He and my friend Magda whipped up a pair of temporary gates from some scrap fencing in an afternoon.  This was after some riff raft had busted into the house the night I got in town, so some more secure access seemed like a good idea.

I also had dinner with Jason from Night is Half Gone who was down with pneumonia just a couple of weeks ago.  Everyone should go tell him they wish him well, although I have to say the whole story sounded suspect to me.  He just happens to have pneumonia the night my house is burgled and then is up to (not particularly outstanding) dinner and drinks on the town?  Hmmmm.

Anyway, photographic proof:

Before

After.  Or actually, during.  We’ll see about after in a few months.

Also, Saki has sort of tentatively decided the cat tree is not an instrument of torture from the devil.  Sort of.  Yay.

This Just In

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God love the commenters of mrpeenee, miscreants all.

In two recent posts, I included photos of guys who had intrigued me, but whose identities were lost in the mists of the internet.

Exhibit A

and B

 Of course, readers of this blog would be the source for all things smut and sure enough, two of our minions came through.  And a big thank you to both of them.

umaneo reports the first one is straight porn guy Tommy Gunn.  My in-depth investigation reveals that he is an attractively rough looking customer.  In the scenes I watched (for archival purposes only,) the young ladies receiving his attentions up the poop chute seemed genuinely discomfited.  Oh, yeah baby.  Wait, that’s not what I meant to say, I meant, Brute, of course.

almchrl1 then chimed in about the second one “He’s a Russian model, Dj and performance artist.I fergit his name….”  Turns out a quick google of those terms reveals he is one Pavel Petel,   Besides being a great big humpy hot homo thang, he also has a number of interesting insights into being a great big humpy hot homo thang in Moscow, where his sexual identity is illegal.

His Tumblr site, HERE, is most amusing, you should go look around it.  I especially liked the spread of him dressed as a unicorn, with a fat hardon, hanging with a pink gorilla.  I can also recommend “King of Twerk,” but then again, I would, wouldn’t I?

In Which mrpeenee is Repeatedly Disappointed

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Secret Agent Fred and I went out to lunch with the Fashion Sensation this afternoon.  I was  confused (which is no rare thing in the peenee Universe) because a couple of weeks ago, the Sensation had told me she was going to a silent mediation retreat somewhere up in Lesbian Land and then when she rescheduled lunch to today, she said it was because she had injured herself water skiing.

The idea of a combo meditation retreat/water sports event seemed unlikely, but vastly appealing, certainly more than just standing around being told to zip it, which is how I envision a silent mediation spree.  Turns out the two things were separate.  How cruelly disappointing.

Physically inept as I am, water skiing is the one sport I’m actually ok at, or at least I used to be.  When I was 11 years old and first learning how, I was so skinny, I could have probably been pulled up by a rowboat.  Fashion Sensation’s injury just makes me think I should just let my past glories lie.

The Sensation wandered off somewhere or the other after lunch and Fred and I retired to the tastefully charming bar at the Fairmont Hotel.  We had only sat down when Fred was summoned away by a series of increasingly frantic calls from his old neighbors in Baltimore about some guys who claimed they were trying to change the lock there.  At 7:00 at night.  On a Sunday.  The calls escalated to a chat with the cops who showed up and who were sceptical about these guys’ story, which I think showed real perception.

While Fred was outside dealing with all his Maryland based drama, the waiter obviously decided I had been stood up by my date.  He was a very cute waiter, as so often happens here, but before I could figure out how to finagle his sympathy into possible pity sex, Fred returned and we settled into simple drinking.

This is not Cookie schvitzing in Baltimore.  I’m pretty sure.

Speaking of Baltimore, Ask the Cool Cookie sent me a self portrait he had snapped while packing up Fred’s house earlier this weekend and then asked that I not post it here.  I’m not going to (even though it had a certain naive charm) and I want full credit for my restraint.

Get out the way.

And speaking of bloggers who should be restrained, MJ, from Infomaniac, sent me a perfectly lovely card for my blog anniversary.   Saki has claimed it for his own and now sits on it blocking the view of all the good porn.  Life is so hard some times.

Baltimore Bound

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I mentioned in the post below that Ask the Cool Cookie has been helping get Secret Agent Fred’s house in Baltimore in shape to be sold.  Cookie has been an absolute champ, dealing with plumbers, floor refinishers, dry wallers and various other miscreants.  He writes cheerfully about scraping off peeling paint and nosy neighbors and the fact that there are no working toilets.  He assures us that you cannot pee behind the garage because it’s full of poison ivy back there, a report I, for one, am willing to take his word on.

Fred had entrusted his house to a property management company who seems to have taken their responsibilities with astonishing insouciance since they allowed two leaks to destroy the floors and the foyer ceiling.  Hence the no water policy and hence the no working toilets and hence Cookie back behind the garage.  I prefer not to dwell on what happens when one discovers the poison ivy mid-pee.

Nevertheless, Fred and I are off Friday morning to Baltimore (Charm City) in order to meet Cookie (I’m looking forward immensely to that,) pack up the last of Fred’s stuff and attempt to avoid the poison ivy.  I have assured both Fred and Cookie I plan on pissing in the front yard, I don’t know why anyone would be surprised.

Coincidentally, Diane von Austinburg will be there for a conference, so that will be amusing.  I had gathered this was work related for her, but now Cookie has emailed that there’s a My Pretty Pony convention scheduled for next week, which seems awfully suspicious.

6

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So this is mrpeenee’s sixth birthday.  I have no idea how these things happen.

I originally started this whole thing only because I wanted to comment more easily on Thombeau’s long gone and most lamented Fabulon and at the time, Blogger made it easier to sign in if you had your own blog.  I still miss Fabulon.

Anyway, after that things just sort of got out of hand.  I certainly never imagined I’d make friends here, connections that would be a great comfort during those dark times around  R Man’s death.  It helped a lot.

And now I have people I’ve never physically met who have opinions about my sex life and decorating and cat (appropriately, I’m typing this without my right thumb because of a big ol’ gash on it from Saki. I swear I am sending him back to Cat Jail.)  And commenters.  I love comments.

And muscle pussy. 

In six years, I have outlasted that pissy queen who used to just post comments so he (or she) could deride my grammar.  I would like to point out Diane von Austinburg is a professional editor and if she can suck up my fondness for gerunds and erratic punctuation, I think everybody else should too.

I have stuck it out through the creepy infatuation of my stalker who used to post coyly and too-affectionate notes and tried to pick comment fights with bloggers I actually admired like Mitzi and Mean Dirty Pirate.  Of all the nerve! I actually turned to MJ from Infomaniac about him (which should tell you how unnerved by him I was) and her advice to ignore him and he would eventually go away was quite right.

Lots of muscle pussy.

We have all lasted long enough for the return of Cafe Muscato, which is most appreciated.

Also, through the magic of bloglandia, I have been able to dragoon Ask the Cool Cookie into helping with Secret Agent Fred’s house in Baltimore and a big thank you to him for that.

Blogs.  They’re handier than you might think.

Lots and lots of Muscle Pussy

Picture It

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Ask the Cool Cookie comments in our photo blathering post below “… what am I contract working on at this moment? A professional photo organizer. At least I get paid to do it.”  I say Right On, Girl, but am astonished at the same time.  It’s difficult enough slogging through all my own photographic proof of shenanigans long gone, and I know, in large part, who the shenaniganners are.  I can’t imagine how you could deal with a stack of strangers mugging at the camera.

For instance, in digging through a tasteful box of loose prints, I wind up brooding, “I know that’s Diane, but what’s with the guy wearing a pig on his head?”  What happens when Cookie runs across the equivalent of this porcine portrait?  How many can you file under “Miscellaneous?”  Plenty, I suppose.

Courageously enough, I am making room by throwing away some.  Editing, editing, always editing.  Photos of somebody’s dog, studio portraits of in-laws who always irritated me, school pictures of tiny tykes who I would be unable to pick out of lineup now (and that seems like a fate that could certainly be awaiting some of them.)  Somehow it seems radically daring to toss them, but honestly, I have thousands of others that I’m actually interested in, why hang on to the flotsam?

Speaking of Shenanigans, here’s mrpeenee modeling the latest in endangered polyester, courtesy of a friend who has drifted off, the victim of time and tides.  How I wish I could say differently about the coat, but she took it with her.  Rats.

And if I were fortunate enough to have the original of this, would I ever toss it?  Certainly not.  As Diana Vreeland once said “I miss fringe.”